For Your Consideration
by Angelsaurus
Summary: America is intent on taking the top prize at the high school film festival, but he is not so keen on Hungary's script revisions.


Free Talk: I am not writing any fanfic for a while because work and school are keeping me too busy, but I thought I would post the stories I wrote this summer for Hetalia fanfic exchanges on LiveJournal. This one was written for Hetalia Fluffathon and features America and England in a high school AU. It was a lot of fun to write. Man, I have ideas now but no time.

**For Your Consideration**  
By Mochi

A harsh wind whipped America's golden hair into a halo-like spray around his face. Rain lashed his face but he refused to blink. One hand, sheathed in a leather glove, pressed to a wound in his side that was oozing dark red life, and the other aimed his gun.

"I knew I would find you here, on the top of the embassy," he growled, hiding any pain he felt with a thick coat of bravado. "Surprised to see me? Heh. You should've made sure your shot killed me instead of just walking away. Communists always make that mistake."

Russia turned around slowly, showing no fear, and smirked at his nemesis. His violet eyes glowed menacingly, the pupils constricted to pinpricks. "It was always my intention to leave you alive," he said coyly. "You see, I had to get you here for the final act. I've had this planned for you from the very start, Comrade."

"Cut!" America bellowed. "Cut the camera! Cut the wind! Cut the rain!"

A chorus of groans went up all around. Japan turned off the spigot on the hose and shut off the fan. Germany stopped the camera and lowered it to his side with a sigh. "What is it _this_ time?" he grumbled under his breath.

America had removed his glasses and was kneading his forehead with the fingertips of both hands. His eyes were squeezed shut, his lips pulled down in a scowl of dissatisfaction. "That was all wrong," he said. "Russia, your accent was just… awful, the worst Russian accent I've even heard."

Russia's irritation showed very subtly on his features; his eyes narrowed ever so slightly and his smile became just a smidge more brittle around the edges. "I am sorry you have a problem with a natural Russian accent," he said, voice thick with fake pleasantness. "Perhaps you thought we all sound like the villains from your Moose and Squirrel cartoon?"

The sweet tone Russia used just made the sarcasm more obvious and America bristled. Was it his fault that the guy didn't understand the difference between real Russian and movie Russian? "I just want it cemented in the audience's mind that you are the communist villain," he said. "It's nothing personal, it's about the conventions of film. Trust me, I've seen over five hundred movies. I know what works and what doesn't."

"I think they'll get the point that he's a communist," England cut in haughtily, shaking a bound stack of paper in front of America's face. "You've used the term no less than fifty times in this joke of a script you wrote."

It wasn't just Russia; it appeared none of the cast and crew understood America's vision. Special effects coordinator Japan had already expressed misgivings about having the climactic rooftop confrontation occur amidst a thunderstorm, called it cliché overkill. Music director Austria objected to the request for electric guitars on the soundtrack, said piano would be classier. Now his actors were rebelling as well.

In all honesty, America wasn't really bothered by the others' complaints, but England's stung; it stung more than he would ever admit aloud. England was his best friend, the first one he'd shared his dream of being a movie director with and the first one who had volunteered to be a part of this project. It was supposed to be _their _movie, and now England was losing faith. But America couldn't let himself get all drippy and emotional over it.

"The script is fine!" he snapped defensively. "You just don't understand it! As writer, director, producer, and star of _Threat Level Midnight_, I think I know how it's supposed to be." His fists had dropped to his sides and curled into tight fists; he knew his frustration must have been showing because the others had gone from looking severely annoyed with him to looking worried over what he might do or say next.

Austria took a cautious step closer, eyes avoiding America's at all costs despite the double protection of their respective glasses. "If I might interject," he said slowly and thoughtfully, "I think the problem might be that you are overextended in so many roles. Perhaps you should delegate some of your duties so that you can focus more on others."

Immediately, America's eyes went wide at the offensive implication. "What?" he stammered. "Are you saying you don't think I can do it all?"

Austria rolled his eyes. "I'm just saying I think you could do it _better_ if you didn't feel you had to do it all yourself. That is why I've already asked my ex-girlfriend to help with the script."

"Hungary?" America's nose scrunched as he asked. Before he could be properly insulted, he had to get all the details. "Didn't she win some sort of award recently."

"A _writing_ award," Austria said, a proud smile blossoming on his face. "She won the World Academy Short Story Contest over more than one hundred other entrants. It would be quite a boon to your film to have her name attached."

That actually wasn't a bad idea, America thought. He just stood there for several seconds scratching his chin making a cost-benefit analysis of the proposition in his head. Having an award-winner's name on the bill certainly would help generate buzz for the project. But America was still rather attached to his script; he didn't want someone changing it, especially some girl, who would probably cut out all the best fight sequences and replace them with touchy-feely crap.

"How much do you think she would change?" America asked Austria. "Because I really think what I wrote is pretty solid."

"Oh yes, very solid," Austria said, though America didn't think it he sounded very sincere. "Hungary would just be polishing it up using her skills as a writer. She wouldn't really be _changing_ the story, just improving its execution."

"You'd be a bloody fool not to take the offer," England cut in.

It was just what America needed to make up his mind. "Well… I guess." he made sure to load enough reluctance into his voice that he wouldn't appear too enthusiastic about the plan (and to discourage anyone making the connection that it really was England who convinced him). "But if I don't like her 'improvements,' we're reverting to the original script. And she better work fast because the film festival is in ten days."

As soon as he said that, a long mane of mousy hair swished into his field of vision, seemingly out of nowhere. Hungary was in the center of the set, wearing a suspiciously devilish grin and holding a tall stack of papers. "You've got nothing to worry about in that department," she declared. "I've already finished my rewrite and I think you all will be very pleased with the _slight_ adjustments that I've made. Here, everyone take a copy." She handed America his copy first and then distributed the rest to the remaining cast and crew.

So Austria had asked her to do this _way_ before getting permission, America thought, more than a little annoyed. But since he had said yes—and he was, deep down, a reasonable guy (or at least wanted England to believe he was)—he decided to overlook the details and turn his attention to the supposedly improved script. The first thing he noticed was that it was over twice as many pages as the original.

"Uh…" America began to say, but Hungary cut him off before he could say anything coherent.

"I want to assuage your fears," she said in a brisk and businesslike fashion. "It may seem like a lot has been changed, but rest assured that the underlying plot remains intact. Now, since we're already set up here, I think we should go ahead and shoot the rooftop scene and then we can go back and redo the rest over the next few days. Sound good?"

Another little croak of sound came from America's throat, but no actual words.

Nobody else could voice and objection, either, so Hungary smiled and chirped, "Good! Let's get America and Russia on set and England standing by."

While she was saying this, America was letting the annoyance he felt at her build up inside his brain and was ready to bark a reminder to her that she was _not_ the director when the meaning of her words finally processed. "Wait, England?" he asked, changed over completely from angry to baffled. "He died twelve pages ago—well, twelve pages ago in my _unaltered_ script—in a dramatic and moving scene critical to my character arc." He paused a moment before hastily adding, "That both he and I agreed upon, of course."

"That's just a teensy weensy little change I've made," Hungary said in a cutesy voice while demonstrating with her thumb a forefinger just how infinitesimal the matter was. "I thought the ending could use just a bit more drama, so I decided to have your partner, England, survive his horrific ordeal with the genetically enhanced shark. I think you'll like it very much."

"So I actually get to play a part in the climactic scene, then?" England asked with one furry eyebrow lifted. He actually looked quite pleased at the prospect, and America felt a twinge of guilt for originally killing him off.

"Let's see how she intends to pull it off before we jump into it," America said. He was unable to refuse something that would make England happier with the movie. "Alright, looks like the scene starts on page eighty-seven. Here it is…" His words fell away as he scanned Hungary's script and fierce heat flooded his cheeks. "Well, that's definitely…"

"It's a departure, that's for sure," England said, his face as red as America knew his own must be.

At least he wasn't infuriated by what Hungary had penned, America thought. But wait, shouldn't _he_, the director and original writer of the film be incensed by what virtually amounted to a genre change? Right away, America forced his face into a glower, tried his best to twist the confusing mix of embarrassment and exhilaration into fury.

"This is supposed to be an action-adventure-mystery-thriller!" he spat, as convincingly angry as he could manage. "It… it's not a kissing movie!" But his voice had a little squeak to it. His cheeks were still blazing hot and his forehead was slicked with nervous perspiration.

"He… America is right," England chimed in. He was stuttering slightly but sounded otherwise serious. "There really is no reason to try to shoehorn in a romantic subplot."

"No reason?" Hungary gasped, clutching the front of her shirt in an overly dramatic fashion, as if the accusation caused her palpitations. "These kinds of movies have always had romantic subplots, from _James Bond _to _Lethal Weapon_."

"But not between…!" America's tongue turned to rubber in his mouth and he couldn't even spit out the end of the sentence.

Hungary didn't need to hear it to know what he meant and she was all too excited in her response. "Don't you see? It's brilliant! Love between men is the future of film! _Brokeback Mountain_ just opened the door for mainstream movies to include this most pure strain of romance! If we seize this opportunity, _Threat Level Midnight_ could be one the most influential, cutting-edge student films ever made!"

"I… I never saw _Brokeback Mountain_!" America stammered and his eyes darted for just a fraction of a second to England, the only one who knew it was a boldfaced lie. The two of them had seen that movie together, exchanging quick covert looks with each other the whole time and blushing furiously. On the way home, they were both too self-conscious to speak to each other.

"Just trust me," Hungary said. "The romance is just what this movie needs. It makes your character's motivation all the more poignant. Having your partner murdered is pretty rough, but having your only love murdered is pure poetry."

America's eyes rolled back over to England and settled there. "Well," he said, hesitantly (but maybe not hesitantly enough). "As director and producer, I can't refuse something that would make the film more likely to win awards and be popular. So I guess it's ultimately up to you, England. I mean it's your character's story that has been changed. Are you okay with playing it… that way?"

England was carrying himself rather stiffly, his shoulders drawn up protectively and his arms crossed high on his chest. He looked away from America as he answered in a calmly awkward voice. "Both of our characters' storylines have been altered, yes. But I do suppose that it is a bigger change for me. So, uh, thank you for… for making it my choice. That was… unusually thoughtful of you." He stopped there.

"So do you want to do it?" America asked. "I know it is stupid and kind of ridiculous, and maybe it will be a little weird acting it out, but we're actors, right? So we should be able to handle it?"

"It won't be a picnic, that's for sure," England said. "But I think I can handle it. Because we are actors."

"And you really wouldn't be the worst person to have to kiss," America added without thinking. Immediately, England turned to look at him with wide eyes and America felt the sweat that had started on his forehead now bathing his entire body.

"Ah, yes," England said, red as a beet. "The feeling is mutual. That is… I mean it could be worse. At least we aren't strangers."

America felt his heart thumping wildly in his chest and he hoped nobody else could sense it. The others needed it firmly in their heads that he was _only_ conceding to this outrageous premise in order to produce a better, more meaningful film. Yes, he wanted to one day be known as the master of the action movie, but he also wanted to be respected as an artist, a pioneer of filmmaking.

"All right!" Hungary cawed, making both America and England jump slightly and effectively breaking the tension that had accumulated between them. She was rubbing her palms together and licking her lips hungrily. "Now that that's settled, let's get on with the show! Places everyone!"

Too anxious and excited to admonish Hungary for playing director again, America turned to England one more time before getting in place. "Honey or pomegranate?" he asked. England cocked his head and America clarified, "My chapstick. I've got two flavors, thought you should pick which one because… you know…"

"Oh, right, right," England said with the barest trace of a smile. "I like Pomegranate." Then he walked past America to get to his mark, and as he did his knuckles brushed gently against America's.

All the hairs on America's arm stood on end. Was the contact just an accident? No, he thought, it was a taste of what was to come. Watch out, World Academy Film Festival.

The End


End file.
